My Soul Was Lost
by FleshofMidnight
Summary: Christine Makes A Decision That Will Affect The Lives Of All Those She Loves. EC...
1. Chapter 1

A/N: taking a break from "Mon Couer S'Ouvre A Ta Voix" due to lack of reviews. But, it is by no means finished. Please R and R!

* * *

I went back to him. Yes, I could no longer resist the pull of our souls, the nearly-tangible chord that chained me to him became impossible to ignore, even after two years of what any young woman might describe as wedded bliss. Raoul could not understand, and in my heart, I regret to say, that I believe he had no desire to comprehend the emptiness that filled my days as the Vicomtess de Chagny.

Our wedding had been a hasty affair- as Raoul wished to spirit me as far from Paris as he was able, as soon as possible. Only a handful of guests attended our unpublicized nuptials, among them Madame Giry and her daughter- acting as my guardians. From the Chagny line, only his withering mother, who watched the rites with an impenetrable expression of subtle disapproval at her son's choice of a bride. My guests, on the other hand, smiled with resignation. I imagine they simply wished that the marriage would be one to bring me great joy and some needed peace.

Peace, yes. Joy was an entirely different matter.

After we left the chapel that evening, Raoul caressing my hand and eyeing me adoringly, we raced towards the family estate in a brougham lined with rich velvet. I could not meet his sweet face with my own, and lacked the inner strength to mask my conflicting emotions. I had been naive enough, at the time, to believe that by marrying my childhood sweetheart, all my problems would vanish as soon as the vows were said.

I was miserably mistaken.

* * *

The wedding night was no less uncomfortable than the wedding, itself. I do not mean to portray my husband as anything less than the gentleman he is, but my heart was not enamored of the intimacy expected of me that night. I had no illusions of what was to pass between Raoul and myself, now legally wed. The act, from various conversations I'd overheard during my years at the Opera, seemed the ultimate pleasure to some, while igniting utter revulsion in others. 

Before we even stepped over the threshold of the grand manor- I would not allow Raoul to carry me over it, as I had made the recent decision to neglect tradition- I did not live in the same world as those that obeyed the customs of polite society. I did not even exist in the same world as my husband.

For Raoul, our marriage had been the reward, the culmination of a year's worth of simply trying to survive. It was the fairy tale ending: two childhood sweethearts reunited in a perfectly loving union despite the murderous rages of a jealous ogre. Raoul equated our marriage with his own victory over Erik, believing that I had chosen him beyond a doubt and left his rival to rot in the bowels of the theatre.

If it helped him to find peaceful sleep each night, as he rested in our plush bed, always grabbing at me in possessive affection, as if I might evaporate without his touch, then I would not correct his illusions.

But I have digressed. Perhaps it is too much-all these thoughts come flowing through my mind in some insane musical deluge. The dam has been broken, Erik, I am going to find you.

The wedding night, yes, I remember it all too vividly. Raoul practically led me to my boudoir, guiding me as I were the small child he hoped I would soon give him, where he'd placed several pink roses before the vanity mirror, no blood red blooms with black ribbons, nor notes in a fine musician's script to accompany the bouquet. I was touched by my husband's sweet gesture, but at the same time, I struggled with the agitation it stirred in me. Why did all of the embraces, romantic outings, and sweet words shared between Raoul and myself only make me feel more a child?

I should have felt a woman, that night, of all nights. For that was required of me, to play the role of dutiful wife and future mother to the heir of the Chagny fortune. Inwardly, I cringed, as Raoul picked up one of the baby pink roses and ran its tender pedals along the curve of my jaw. "I love you, Little Lotte."

Unable to answer him with the genuine passion of my heart, I turned in his arms and offered him a charming smile, as thanks for his roses, his love. I did love him in return, but it was a love that only flickered as a single fading candle fighting the gusts of the wind. The greater love, an inferno, by contrasts, raged as a furnace that could have heated every one of the numerous rooms of the overbearing Chateau that had newly become my home. The blaze was for Erik, and I had attempted against all reason and against all my soul's longings to quell the fire.

Raoul must have taken my smile as an invitation, his fingers sliding under the sleeves of my gown. "You are so beautiful, my darling wife." He smoothly pushed the sleeves completely off my shoulders, and eyes me with what could only be sensual desire. Setting down the rose, my husband bent his head to my breast, his hands eagerly prying them from the confines of my bodice.

I shivered, not in anticipation, but in the fear that I may not be able to complete my wifely duty. There had been a time when I welcomed Raoul's kisses, relished them- but such were the snares of innocent first love. I confess, I had never thought of lying with him as husband and wife. My daydream of our life together involved the affection of chaste kisses, and not intense coupling.

Still, I did not resist him. He was my husband, my protector, and the best friend I'd ever known. I had no wish to show him rejection. And, inwardly I mourned for us both, that I could not savor this intimacy as I ought, and that it was merely my flesh making love to Raoul de Chagny.

"Don't be afraid, my little darling," his palms cupped my exposed breasts, and he began to knead them. "I won't hurt you," He cooed, pressing up against me, so that I felt his arousal against my covered thigh. I shivered again at this realization.

But I was afraid, my anxiety growing as Raoul began to gingerly remove my many layers of clothing, and, in turn, separating his own garments from his skin. I was not ready.

Or perhaps, I was completely ready. It was not the wrong time. It was the wrong lover.

* * *

After I fulfilled my 'wifely' responsibilities on my wedding night, and Raoul had snuffed out the few candles that had illuminated the act, I promptly curled myself into a fetal position on what was my side of the massive bed, turning my back on a husband who had been nothing but caring. 

My nostrils took in the scent of sweet smoke from the extinguished candlelight, as my mind fought memories of other lights, other dancing rings of flame, and other kisses.

I had become a cold woman-no sooner than the moment when I'd passed from girlhood to maturity. Failing already as a wife, and withering at the young age of seventeen into a embittered and frightened thing. I would not blame sweet Raoul if he rid himself of me within the span of a year. The last thing he deserved was to be bound forever to a girl who lacked the ability to simply desire him as any sane woman ought, and would.

My knees curled up tightly to my chest, and reassured by the subtle snoring of my husband, I released a flood of rueful tears. I cried not only for myself, but for the two of them. The two men who had the misfortune of loving me beyond all reason-something which I could not fathom because I lacked the enormity of such feeling. Perhaps I was a cruel 'little thing'. Mama Valerius and Madame Giry would, no doubt, agree if they knew my state of mind.

Most of all, I cried for Erik. For what I had wrought upon him. For my ignorance as to his whereabouts, his freedom, his own state of mind, whether he was getting enough rest. . .down to the most inane details. . .as only a mother could worry over her child. . .or a girl over the man who held the strings of her heart. And, of course, as I had been selfish all my life, I mourned over the certainty that he must definitely hate me, and would never wish to see his once beloved Christine Daae again.

I would continue to weep for my maestro for the next two years. It would take me the course of time to recover my courage and master my pride in order to seek him out. It would be two years, full of sterile and numb performances on the stage that was Parisian society, to tell Raoul the truth, and to set us both free. Two years of selfish notions that 'all would work itself out', and merely keeping a fresh smile and issuing a mirthful comment at dinner would compensate for my failures.

Two years, Erik. . .have you been waiting for me?


	2. Chapter 2

"Why?" he dashed towards me, stopping mere inches from my face.

Another simple question, but the answer was far more complex. "I hate to hurt you, to tie you down any longer than I already have, Raoul." I reached out to cup his cheek with my palm, but he recoiled like an injured animal.

"Hurt me, tie me down, what are you talking about, Christine?" He shook his head at me in bewildered frustration. It was at that moment that I came to the morbid realization that my husband had never even acknowledged the existence of the massive void that lay between us.

"You have brought me nothing but joy. Is this something to do with the fact that you have not conceived an heir for the Chagny line?" His tone turned sympathetic and caring, and unlike him, I did not flinch when he moved to caress my cheek. "You should know, I did not marry you so that you could sit at home and nurse future Comtes, Christine. I married you because I love you."

"I know, Raoul. You've been so very patient with me, but the issue of an heir has nothing to do with my decision."

"Don't you love me, Christine? Have I done anything to upset you, to push you away?" His self-pitying assumption that he had been at all influential in my decision to leave only made my guilt rise to almost suffocating levels.

"Raoul, you have done nothing wrong. Don't you see, my darling. . .you and I were never meant to be lovers." I trapped him within my gaze, hoping to enlighten him to the enormity of the situation.

"You're speaking as if you've gone mad, Christine. We have been meant for one another since childhood! Your father even wished it so!"

"Do not bring my father into this conversation, Raoul!" I was utterly baffled at my sudden outburst, but anger was obviously boiling under my calm exterior. I made no effort to control its heat.

He stared at me in what could only be described as mute horror. "What has come over you, Christine? How can you look at me so calmly and tell me you are ending our marriage?"

"Surely, you have felt, as I have from the very beginning, that it was not to be. . ."It had all seemed so obvious, so painfully apparent, to me from the moment Raoul placed a sizable wedding band upon my finger, that we were committing ourselves to an infatuation that had already grown stale.

Childish love is simply that. . .childish to the very core of what one believes, at the time, to be an unquenchable thirst for another person. In actuality, it is merely a game played by those fascinated by new feelings that have lain silent until that first meeting. Childish love is fickle and does not tend to last longer than a season's worth of courtship and shy embraces. It could be scripted if one took the time to reminisce on the past, on old sweethearts. . .

But, I was still too young to recall my marriage to the recently-titled Comte de Chagny with any bittersweet fondness. I felt far too guilty and foolish to allow images of romance, clandestine meeting on the roofs of certain opera houses, to cloud my reasoning. Secret engagements and other games to rival fairy tales. I had grown to despise any fairy tale of the conventional sort. . .being that with the proverbial happy ending.

I needed something more. I was not content to live a life which could be predicted with complete accuracy from the start of my marriage to the evening I would inevitably lie on my deathbed, surrounded by strapping blonde Chagny heirs. My maestro had taught me other things outside the realm of music. He had, even if he had not meant to impart such wisdom, shown me worldly truths and the depths of all-consuming passions. In all honesty, my mind often wandered to that white mask as my husband and I shared our marriage bed. Every single embrace was haunted by the memory of that single kiss that had remained more intimate and sacred than any night of love-making with my Raoul.

"I have not been entirely unhappy, Raoul. And I do not blame you for my restlessness. I hope, above all, that you will place the blame on me, and only on me, for the dissolution of our marriage. It is my decision. I can not fight him any longer. I can not fight my feelings. I have always loved him. I am sorry."

Before he had an opportunity to respond, I reached down to curl my fingers around the handles of two of my valises. The final threshold, Erik, had sung. I meant to fulfill my true wifely duties, to meet his every desire with my own and to rival it in its passion.

The carriage that would take me to the train station rolled up to the entrance of the manor, as if I had summoned it to retrieve its passenger at the perfect moment. I could not stop myself from stealing a glance back at my bewildered husband, as he stood, hands pressed firmly on the sides of the door frames; an angry Samson prepared to buckle the pillars of his temple. I swore at the moment I stepped into the carriage, that he let out a howl of sorts. Not that of ungodly anger, but more akin to the sound of a trapped animal who only wishes to be relieved of misery.

As the driver shut the carriage door, I promised my husband that he would be glad I had left, that, in the end, he would find a woman far more suitable than an orphaned chorine. I could not have spoken the vow to his face, I knew, for we had never truly existed for one another. Instead, we had played the game of youth, fitting ourselves to the molds of genteel society, shaping our thoughts and desires to that which would please the other. For Raoul, I had acted the role of La Cenerentola, waiting to be rescued, not just from poverty but from the ogre in the tower. And perhaps, it would have played itself out just as it closes in the storybook tales.

But, there was a great incongruence with my own life and that of La Cenerentola and all the other heroines of fanciful tales. There had never been an ogre in my life. Or if there had been, it had been the heroine. For I had caused such pain. Not Erik. A frog prince, maybe. But never an ogre or a troll.

It was time to make things right, finally, to end the ceaseless pain of it all. I leaned my head out of the brougham window and yelled to my chauffeur. "To Paris, the Rue di Rivoli, the Madeleine. Quickly, please!"

He grinned back at me with a cocky nod, certain that he would be receiving a generous fare if he managed to carry his passenger safely to the great city. "Vite! Vite" he summoned the two mares under his crop.

I would use the length of the journey to formulate a plan, to catch Erik, to entice him from his sorrow, and his cave. Whatever beauty was left in me desired nothing more to be united with its beast.


	3. Chapter 3

* * *

The ride to Paris and the Opera could not have been longer due to my desire to set my future into its rightful pathway, nor could it have been a more rapid journey to the cost of my nerves. I realized as the brougham pulled up in front of the all too familiar facade of the Opera Populaire. What could I possibly say to Erik? Was he even still inside? Was he even in France for that matter?

Was he alive?

But, of all the questions that I could not answer, I did know the truth of the last. I could feel his soul as if it were part of my own flesh and body. It caused my own heart to beat in its wake. I was certain that if the dreaded time ever came before I found him, the day when he decided to take his last breath-for it would be his decision, no one, not even God could ever make a choice for Erik-I would no at the exact moment of that final exhalation. And then I would ask God to let me go to him, too. I did not have the strength of Erik's will. The choices Erik made would always be the requests I prayed would be granted.

I was not as strong as he, nor as wise. I could only hope to become so.

But, as I edged ever closer to where I hoped to find him, I grew more alive with each passing second. My blood was warm in my body, and I began to feel heady with anticipation, uncertainty, and an emotion I had not even allowed myself to consider in my two years as the Comtesse de Chagny.

_Desire._

* * *

I could recall with vivid clarity the first time _it_- that unspoken lust that a genteel woman was expected to ignore- had seized my mind and flesh in it silken fist, stealing the breath from my lungs. It had been the delicious suffocation that was Erik's opera.

Don Juan Triumphant. I imagined it would remain the most scandalous work to grace the Paris stage for many years to come. So be it, I thought, it was time for the rest of the world to wake up, and feel consumed. By music. . .by passion. . .to glimpse into the life of a genius. His music had awakened all that lay dormant in my own soul, but I had realized it far too late, I knew.

Nevertheless, I planned to make amends, to track him down just as the gendarmes had attempted to flush him out from his self-made labyrinth. But, my motivations were of a completely different persuasion than that of the Parisian guard. And, though I would come baring fire, it was not to torch the furnishing of his home or turn his musical compositions to worthless ash.

Before I realized it, I was exiting the brougham and handing the considerate coachman a very appreciative sum, much more than he would have expected for the length of his fare. The gutted Opera Populaire stood like a ghostly monolith before me, tempting me to enter its devastated rooms, to become a phantom inhabitant myself. My fingers shook, and my whole body felt unnaturally light, as if I'd imbibed too many flutes of champagne. I was far from afraid, instead, the subtle tremors of my limbs were those of anticipation and nervous energy.

As I walked to the once-gilded doors of the grande foyer, I fumbled in my handbag for the small envelope that would serve as my overture to the opera's most mysterious and enigmatic former resident. I had even gone to such measures as to assure that the ink had been the ominous shade of crimson, arousing thoughts of blood and passion. The envelope, which I would place in the ruin of my former dressing room, at the foot of the shattered mirror, revealed only one single word-

_Erik_.

* * *

I could not have sufficiently prepared myself for the dilapidated state of the Opera Populaire, and I found myself quivering in disbelief and regret at the eerily beautiful ruin of what had been the _grande escalier_. On the other hand, I was particularly thankful that marble did not vanish into cinders as wood, making it possible for me to feel slightly safer as I completed my task. Still, as I took the first few uncertain steps through the foyer, navigating in the direction of my former dressing room, the building did acknowledge my presence with groans of steel and the creaking of rotting wood.

I doubted I would suffer any difficulty in the search for the remains of my former quarters- my time with Erik had caused me to, quite unconsciously, adjust to meandering through corridors and tiers with barely a candle to serve as my guide. I did not even push my arms out before me to 'feel' for the walls, and was afforded the sly slits of sunlight that managed to creep through the battered structure of Erik's former "palace to music".

No, I would not weep again, not for this theatre, or for the past. I had the whole future in which to invest my hope, to give all of myself to the one who was meant to share my soul, if fate offered me the chance to give myself over to Erik entirely. Finally, things would be as they always should have been. It was now a foregone conclusion that I would no longer let myself be led by morality, polite society, or what others considered best for Christine De Chagny, nee Daae.

As I placed my shaking palm to the door handle and turned it, I almost expected to find Erik inside, waiting for me, as if he'd known I would return, his arms outstretched to enfold me in the velvet wings of his cloak. Sadly, the chamber was devoid of any person, nor the man I sought so veraciously. But the room was not empty. And, at the sight before me, I fell to my knees and bit back the tears.

* * *


	4. Chapter 4

* * *

I could not be certain of the time when Erik had returned to my dressing room, but it was glaringly obvious that he had left his own message for me.

My body wavered with awe- how, considering how much labor and attention to detail must have been involved, did he know I would return? Had he believed the same as I; that our parting kiss so many months would not mark the end of our strange relationship? We had never been merely teacher and student, nor simply friends; but we had not been lovers, either. Erik and I shared something beyond all common terms, a connection so indescribable and rare, that I was certain it would never be found among any other two individuals again.

I could no longer bring myself to rationalize my feelings for him, or the intoxication tension between he and I as an understanding of two persons with an obsessive love of music- as Raoul had often said after many awkward lapses in our nightly conversations. It had been his own way of comforting himself. Guilt once again swept over me as I gathered up a handful of rose petals-some eerily fresh, others stiff with age- and pressed them to my face. My husband had never even wished to think ill of his young wife, and had convinced himself that it was the trauma of the past that so often left him at a loss of my affection.

If I did not move or make a sound during our 'lovemaking', when I did not respond with wanton anticipation as he palmed and caressed the pink flesh between my thighs, pressing his erection against my core, he reasoned that I must still be frightened and shy, due to the events that had transpired at the Opera Populaire.

"You are safe, now," he had told me on our wedding night, kissing my forehead as he parted my legs, and easing himself on top of my body, his arousal pressing against my still-untouched sex. Had he reached the realization that first night- or any other evening when he took his pleasure- that I saw another face, and not his, above my own- beautiful in its deformity and anguish?

That is why I closed my eyes each time my sweet, naive husband thrust into me. For, with each touch or ragged breath he made, my mind fostered the illusion of Erik's hands caressing my flesh, his body melding into my own.

I had not acknowledged the forbidden longings, even to my own soul, that first night. Yet, with the passing of months, the loneliness and detachment I felt gradually pervaded my every thought. If I had simply allowed myself some honesty and let my soul speak to my mind, I very well might have come to the rose-covered dressing room much sooner. Perhaps, I might have arrived to find Erik in the process of leaving his poignant and extravagant message, his own scent mingling with that of the roses. Yet, I had tried, without success, to forget him, to plunge my soul into a state of numb acceptance and wifely duty.

To follow the storybook pattern, to reach the predictable, but always lauded, storybook ending. The maiden marries the prince. The 'ogre' is slain, and the virginal maiden is grateful to her rich Adonis for rescuing her from the ghoul's foul clutches. Or so the stories say. . .

I let the rose petals fall between my trembling fingers, and gave into the sobs of regret that I had stifled for two years. Exhausted, I laid down among Erik's fragrant blooms and let my eyelids fall shut. I fell asleep with those dead white and red flowers kissing my body, and dreamt that the ogre would return to avenge his sorrow upon the maiden. To quell his rage and find peace against her now-willing flesh.

The storybooks never allude to the virgin's intoxicating and inexplicable desire for her ogre, her fascination with his fate, and her curiosity to know him and the intricacies of his past. . .of what has made of him a damaged creature.

No, the storybooks will never reveal the secret of the maiden's entrapment: that she loves her captor for the passion that oozes from his every gesture, and it is a strange love- one that the maiden dares not even admit to herself. But all the while, she sits and waits, waits until that moment when he will force her to that revelation: that her passions are as great as his own. That they are both lost without the other. And that, to be found and made whole, the monster and the maiden must surrender themselves to one another, in flesh and soul.


	5. Chapter 5

* * *

Nothing could have adequately prepared me for the sight of him- once more his presence filled me with shock and excitement, and a desire which I had long suppressed. His form seemed to appear gradually before me, as if he had been made of some dark, alluring mist. And, as I had so many months earlier, I moved towards him with eager curiosity, my hands outstretched in expectation.

As my voice began to follow the seductive song of the violin, Erik's playing became increasingly louder and more passionate. Words were not needed between us, when there was music by which to communicate.

At that tremulous moment when we again stood face to face, there was the sudden appearance of silence. What should one say to the lover she has spurned? Would a simple apology overcome years of pain and heartache- it seemed an awfully inadequate repentance- or would he throw my humility at my face, scoffing at my belief that I could still make him love me? The reality of the matter was that no one person, despite enjoying Erik's affection, could _make_ him do anything. He was the most singularly-minded and self-reliant man I had ever known, and also the most intriguing.

As my fingers reached out to make contact with his flesh, to caress the soft skin of his unmasked cheek, he quickly pivoted on his heel and offered me his back. It took only a moment for me to realize that, although he had come to me, he would communicate on his own terms. The tables had turned, and I had given myself up to the mercy of desire. "Erik," I asked, but with a firmness that caused him to face me once again. Yet, he did not meet my gaze, merely stared through me with numb indifference. The emotion in his eyes was more terrifying than if he had been afire with rage. I would rather endure his anger than fail to arouse any emotion in his spirit.

"Comtesse de Changy," he bit at the syllables of my married name, as if it were a foul taste in his mouth.

I would not be cruel, I had decided before arriving at the Opera, I would only offer my that which was true within me, and callousness would serve as tangible a mask as that which graced Erik's features. "Christine, please. . ." I stammered, and once again reached out to touch him.

He did not dodge my fingers, but gazed quizzically at my hand as it came to rest upon his firm shoulder. I relished the feel of him, the soft lining of his evening cloak seemed the sensation of being reunited with a lost loved one. "Erik, you and I have no need for such formalities. I thought we were beyond that. If nothing else, were we not always friends?"

"Does one normally betray a friend, and plot his death?" It seemed he was finished with our conversation, and began to walk away.

"Erik, you don't understand. I had no choice!"

But, he continued to move further and further away from me, until his feet crossed the threshold of the dressing room. He was leaving me as I had left him. "My dear, we all have choices. There is always a choice."

"Yes," I called back with an agonizing urgence, "and now, I have made mine!"

* * *


	6. Chapter 6

Against all hope, my voice brought him around again, though he was far from opening his arms to me in welcoming affection. For an insufferable amount of time, which was probably the duration of a few seconds, Erik simply stared at me with his amber gaze. It was unsettling and alluring to once more have his eyes wash over me, even if in ridicule.

"Madame, you made your choice two years ago, if I recall correctly." He inhaled with audible impatience. "And, I have been cursed with an all but perfect memory. Yes, I can still see you kissing that boy as if it were yesterday when you left me."

"But, it was not yesterday, Erik. Times have changed, I have changed."

"No," he struck back at me, all at once, standing very close to my face, so that his breath lashed against my cheek. "There is little need to remind me of the passage of time, how long you have been the Comtesse de Chagny!"

"I was only a girl when I left with Raoul! I did not know my own mind!"

"And, it seems you still do not, if you believe that I will again fall to me knees and kiss the hem of your skirt, begging for your love!"

That singular image pierced deeper than any other, the memory of Erik burying his ravaged head in the folds of my dress, repentant, full of undying love, causing me to shutter at its intensity.

Very calmly, gathering my poise, I realized that the only way I would make any progress with Erik was to speak with painful honesty. It was my turn to be the supplicant. "I expected no such thing. In fact, quite the opposite."

"Christine, have I underestimated you," he mocked me, circling me like a vulture, which was all to easy to imagine with his arms wrapped in the folds of that black velvet opera cloak. "On what grounds exactly, must I ask, bring you here to this faded ruin and its resident ogre?"

"You would not believe me if I told you." I held my body rigid and stone still, willing all fear and intimidation to remain hidden.

"Madame de Chagny, there are very few things one could confess to me that I would not, at least, attempt to accept as truth. I have lived far too long, seen far more than your young eyes to not have a bit of faith in the preposterous."

I was well aware that by 'preposterous', Erik referred to any statement issued from my lips. "Then, shall we talk, as two civilized adults. I am no longer a child, and ask only what any gentleman would grant a lady."

"I am, and have never been a gentleman." Still, despite his rebuttal, Erik returned to the dressing room and laid out on the divan as I resumed my chair at the vanity table.

"More a gentleman than an angel, Erik. So, let's not trifle with symantics."


	7. Chapter 7

"More a gentleman than an angel, Erik. So, let's not trifle with semantics."

"Touche', my dear." He unfurled his cloak and laid it across the back of the chaise lounge. There was something very disconcerting about his nonchalance. It seemed to be in total contradiction to the rose-covered floor that had been his doing. How could it be that he cared so little if he had gone to so much trouble to adorn my dressing room in such an exquisite manner?

He did care, otherwise, why would he have played his violin for me? He was not one to simply taunt me with his presence. Maybe it was my own foolish pride, but Erik might toy with the minds of others, but never my own. I hoped this still held true. "I honestly expected that I would have to seek you out, Erik. But you can not deny that you have come to me of your own volition."

And true to his nature, he replied with guarded humor, "Madame, I do nothing that is not of my own choosing."

"I know that all too well. You always have your way, Erik, no matter what harm comes of it." I meant to incite his rage, to stir some feeling in him other than the ennui he was currently emitting.

"I recall, Christine, that you are no stranger to inflicting pain upon those that love you. In fact, betrayal, I believe, is your forte."

"The past two years have not softened your heart, I see."

"But, they have made you all the more impulsive. Your tongue has sharpened, Comtesse, and I must admit it is a quality most becoming." He sat up and leaned further into me. Now, why have you lured me out of my black hole, hrm?"

"Are you finished belittling me, monsieur le Fantome?" I did not wait for a response, but caught his smirk out of the corner of my eye. "I have not come here for a final argument, Erik."

"Closure, then, I assume, madame?" He sat up straight and stared into me with unwavering confidence-when did his gaze not consume its subject? "To make peace with the old demons?"

"I have made peace with my demons, that is not my purpose. I have come to see you for one simple reason."

"Well, am I to be left in suspense? My dear, you were always one for dramatics, but I am getting far too old for them."

"It is not easy to say, Erik. There is so much I should tell you," I began blubbering like a chorus girl after her third glass of wine. "But you must give me a chance, a fair chance, to explain myself!"

He rounded on me then, not with rage, but with a clipped anger, his voice sharp and short,"Do you honestly think, Christine, that you are owed anything from the Opera Ghost?" His back was to me once again, shoulders taut with what must be controlled fury.

"It isn't a question of whether you or OWE anything to one another!"

"Of that you are wrong, Comtesse!" The room became eerily quiet except for the dreadful throb of silence that bridged a gulf between us. "You betrayed me without a second thought, offered me up to the slaughter, all the while playing the tease. Almost giving me hope! Christine, let me forget you, please!"

The door slammed behind him, rattling in its frame. Suddenly, I felt more alone and more foolish than ever before. But, I could not surrender, I would not lose at this point. Because, I knew for certain, by the gravity of his rage, and his makeshift memorial of my dressing room, that he still loved me. Those of the theatre flock like moths to flame to a tragedy, and I would see my own private opera through to the end.


	8. Chapter 8:To Whom It May Concern

  
Setting myself to the task ahead, my mind seemed a black, confused void. What would I say? "Sir, you may remember me as the young girl whose life you attempted to save. . .I now ask for your help once again, so that I might return to my would-be captor?" No, words would be a tricky endeavor. But, I knew of noone else for whom I could seek help. Not even Madame Giry knew Erik as the Persian did. If I were to face the facts, I was left with little options but to seek the man in the astrakhan cap.

I decided to simply let the words come as they wished. Urgency did not make allowances for artful language, and my frustrations propelled me to compose the missive at a furious pace.  
-  
Monsieur, This letter comes to you from a young lady whose life you once helped to save. Though it has been over two years since the denouement that was Erik's "Don Juan Triumphant", I have not forgotten your kindness, which you gave so freely to me, my fiancé, and to Erik. You, I am certain, must be very curious as to the purpose of my letter, seeing that we have not conversed since that fateful night in the underground lair. So, at the risk of greatly exhausting your patience, Monsieur, I shall get straight to the matter at hand.

You must have heard, as the gossips of Paris rival those of all other cities in their prater, that I married the young Vicomte de Chagny soon after the catastrophe at the Palais Garnier. To speak frankly, improperly even for a lady of my social standing, marriage was not the dream I had imagined. Raoul, my dear husband, and I have parted-it was my decision. And why?

Monsieur, you are the only soul to whom I may confess, for we are the only two people in the world to have ever gained Erik's trust, his friendship. So, I must make use of our strange confidence, for you are my last hope. I must find Erik, I must regain his trust.

The Opera Ghost has haunted my every living hour since he released me from my engagement. I did not realize then, and I cannot say that any one of our party-if one could deem us as such- was aware of the fact that I should never have left him. It became painfully clear very quickly following our departure from the opera house.

Raoul desired to wed as soon as possible, whatever his reasons; be it the fervor of his love for me or his fear that Erik would return and I would be unable to refuse him, and I did not protest. To the contrary, though I did not appear the beaming, blissful bride one would expect of the betrothed of a handsome Vicomte, I also hoped to make haste with the nuptials. 

I cannot name my husband's reasons for the quick ceremony-less than a fortnight after I abandoned my maestro, yet foresight struck me as an unexpected slap across my cheek, leaving the angry reminder of my mistake that I could not correct. 

I had turned my back on my destiny that evening, allowing myself only a glance of Erik-knowing we would never see one another again, believing then, that he would cease to exist in my physical world. He had to become a true phantom of my memory, for I had given my consent to assume another life in a very different world. I would play the masquerade of the Vicomtesse Christine de Chagny.

I left my husband yesterday afternoon. I did not warn him. We never argued during the period of our marriage. No, we were a comfortable, settled couple, and we somehow adopted a very similar relationship as to that of our shared youth. Raoul de Chagny and I recited our wedding vows for what revealed itself to be two children playing house.

I am no longer a child. As you know Erik; he often referred to you, sir, as the sole friend he had in this world, you must be aware of the magic he exudes. To know him is to fall into a separate reality, formed of his unrivaled intellect and the power of his art. I was too naive then, it had not realized that after succumbing to Erik's spell, even if he chose to free you, the enchantment would always survive.

I cannot allow for him to waste away, Monsieur! Surely, you share a sense of brotherly affection for the Opera Ghost, and thus, would not wish for Erik to fade from life as if he had only ever existed as a shadow?

So, in closing, good sir, will you please help me save Erik? I have no idea how to lure him out of his cocoon, but I will use my last remaining breath attempting to do so. Monsieur, whether you can help me or not is not important at this time. I request, instead, that you meet me at the Opera tomorrow evening, at eleven. The Rue Scribe. . .

Sincerely,  
Christine, Vicomtesse de Chagny ----------------------------------------------------- 


	9. Chapter 9

* * *

Realizing that I would make no further progress in my attempts to reclaim the Opera Ghost's affections at the present time, I gathered up my things and decided to seek out lodgings for the evening. Having already emptied my saved earnings from my short term as the Opera Populaire's new diva the day before, I would have ample coin to afford a suite of comfortable rooms.

When the money began to dwindle, which it inevitably would, I would have to seek a more modest shelter. Hopefully, when the time came, I would be an employed woman of some manner.

Exiting the dilapidated former_ 'palace of music'_, I found it to be a cold Parisian evening, the locals all hustling about in gorgeous furs as they traveled from one social event to another. I had once been of their kind. I did not look back. Instead, I observed them with a strange pity. I had escaped the constraints of their repressed hypocritical circle- a place where an individual only existing as the quality of his family name, and his bank account. One must be seen, but not heard. Though the women of the circle never sought my company; believing me a common harlot who'd made off with the great Chagny fortune in exchange for a twist in Raoul's bed, they did not invite my conversation. But, they did discuss me and my past with a certain masked man as fodder for their most salacious gossip.I had learned, even before my marriage, to pay them and their sharp, spiteful lies, no mind.

Now, I sought a quiet life, albeit not the most provincial choice of mate and home, but I believed Erik and I would eventually find some happiness together. Or at the very least, resolution.True, Raoul's handsome face and plush lifestyle had once dazzled me. I had been a confused starlet at the time, an orphan who could not understand the seemingly supernatural events that consumed her life. At the time, I had great difficulty separating dreams from nightmares, truth from fiction, my lines of reality were substantially blurred. The confused girl I was needed a guide, one who would not cause her mind to run in circles, fluctuating between ecstacy, fear, and fascination.

In short, I turned to Raoul de Chagny for the comfortable familiarity he provided. Not to say that I never loved him. In fact, in those days past, the childish adoration I felt for the handsome Vicomte was the only form of love I had allowed myself to acknowledge. I would not remain so successful in my efforts to ignore the intriguing darkness of an all-consuming passion, its eternal presence like a pulse rushing eternally through my every hour.

But children fool themselves very well. Raoul and I wove our happy ending, and half-believed it. For a little while. . .

I experienced little to no difficulty acquiring rooms close to Erik's domain. As I unpacked my modest amount of luggage, I was able to glance at the dome of the Opera Garnier from my suite's sitting room window, which afforded a lovely view of the Place de L'Opera. I felt as if I were spying from above, watching over the denizens of the theatre as they went about their daily routine, unaware of my interest in their lives. And then, it struck me as something that should be quite obvious, that Erik must have experienced the same sensation of an omnipresent overseer many times, finding solace in quiet anonymity.

I began to wonder, for the first time in my short life, what it must be like to exist in such utter solitude. For, I had always had a friend, a parent of sorts, such as Mama Valerius, or Madame Giry whom I could seek in times of need. Of course, my maestro had been my guardian, as well as my angel-tongued tutor. From his care, I had flung myself into Raoul's arms. In essence, I knew I had never really been independent, never known what it must be to rely solely on myself. It was a daunting, if not exciting, idea. I was frightened- I had left my marriage to reclaim a companion, and had failed to consider just how unprepared I actually was to once more become, simply Mademoiselle Christine Daae.

Alone.

Naive.

And, all at once, I was ashamed for my failure to plan, my lack of appreciation for all of those people in my life, past and present, who had cared for me, sheltered me. Anger at my own cowardice and indecision, unquestioningly allowing everyone else to remove all responsibilities and choices from my power.

Now, the puppet strings that had so pointedly led my every action began to sag. There was no one left to guide la mademoiselle marionette. It was time to grow up. As much as I told myself this, it was not going to be a simple or kind process, and truths about my own nature and past regrets were bound to haunt me.

I spent most of my first evening along at the hotel watching out that one window, my eyes scanning for the swift and agile movements of a tall cloaked man striding across the streets below, untouched by the gaslights which revealed every other form unskilled in the art of stealth. I had become a slave to detail; the slightest foreign noise or unexpected draft calling my attention and igniting my hope that my strange and elusive tutor would appear, eager to fold me in his arms.


	10. Chapter 10

A sharp rapping upon the chamber door roused me from sleep- a rest which I had not embarked upon knowingly, falling asleep in the chaise lounge due to the previous day's exhaustion. My neck ached from the strange, haphazard manner in which I'd slept, and I made a little cry when startled by the sounding of the door.

I checked my appearance in the window glass, straightening the collar of my gown, and running my fingers through my mangled hair in an effort to tame it. Reluctantly, after the rapping continued, I stood and made my way to the door. Pressing my hand upon the knob, but not turning it, I found my voice and asked, "Who is it?"

The even tone of a male voice replied in an almost official manner,"A message arrived for you, madame."

I quickly gave into my curiosity and opened the door to find the maitre d'hotel standing straight as post, a slim white envelope in his outstretched hand. "Merci," I thanked him and started to close the door. As the maitre d'hotel began to pivot around on his heel and leave, I stammered back to him, "Monsieur, may I ask you who gave this letter to you?"

Though a quick glance at the elegant red script bearing my name as " Madame Christine de Chagny," I knew the origin of my message. At once, my heart fluttered in a wave of hope, and I wondered if Erik had delivered the missive himself.

The man turned back to me, and added, rather bluntly, "A Madame Giry, madame."

"Thank you."

"Will that be all, madame?"

"Yes, thank you." He turned and left, eager to return his work, errand completed. So, Madame Giry knew now that I was in Paris, and she was in contact with Erik. Perhaps, I should have contacted her before writing the Persian, Nadir Khan. But, why had my dear friend and teacher simply left the note for me and not requested a meeting? Why act in such an impersonal, hasty manner?

My second day in Paris was beginning as a stirring whirlwind. The loneliness and shame of the previous day began to erode as I fingered the envelope of fine paper bearing my married name. I pondered the feelings running through Erik as he wrote out those letters...Madame Christine de Chagny-his rival and his love joined. _But, was I indulging myself in believing Erik loved me still?_

Only perusing the letter would help me to find an answer to my growing agony. I withstood my desire to simply rip it open, but did not wish to destroy what could possibly be the beginning or the ending of my life with Erik. Using the tip of my fingernail, I lifted the familiar red wax seal with its ominous death's head. _Oh, Erik, you have ridiculed yourself more than any other man. _

My hands trembled with anticipation as unfolded the stiff leaves of paper, my eyes barely able to register that Erik had cared enough to write to me. After such a tumultuous reunion only a morning ago, I doubted whether he would give me one passing glance

_Christine,_

_Or shall it be Vicomtesse de Chagny? Let me first offer my apologies for allowing my emotions to overwhelm my good judgement at our last meeting. If I have given you any grief, forgive me. However, Madame, my curiosity as to your true intentions for returning to Paris have caused me to pen this missive. If you truly wish to explain yourself to me, sans the dramatic show you made of affairs yesterday, I will be happy to oblige you. The Gate to the Rue Scribe, midnight, this evening. I have been a very patient man, do not ask me to be more so._

_Respectfully,_

_Erik_


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter 11: My Soul Was Lost

I chose not to reply to Erik's short letter. There was little need to pen a response, as I would be seeing him very soon.

I had not for a moment questioned the fact that I would be meeting my maestro at midnight, as he had instructed. The gate to the Rue Scribe...yes...even now, I could find my way to it without the aid of a lantern or even sight. The map of Erik's domain was permanently inscribed upon the pages of my mind. A realm of fantasy, sadness, an eerie labyrinth of unspoken desires that drew me in as it played upon the illicit wishes of my heart. Perhaps, I thought of Erik's damp and gloomy maze in too dramatic a fashion, attributing to it an unreal dose of romanticism.

The truth was that Erik's home beneath the opera was his self-made prison, one which he had inhabited for many years, a cold and cavernous cell that only served to nurse the agonizing loneliness that marked his life How one man could seclude himself underground for such a length of time was beyond my comprehension. Any other man would have taken his own life, driven insane by the silence, the lack of human companionship and acceptance. But Erik was unlike any other person, stronger in will, living on, if only to prove to all of us that he was superior, possessing a mind that defied even madness and death.

Erik's genius, his stubborn will, at once enticed and frightened me. Only Erik could make me feel like the common orphan I had once been, and not the wealthy, well-loved Vicomtesse de Chagny. The maestro had a way of stripping me of my airs. In his company, I was only Christine, his protege, not a diva in the making, or the fiancé of Raoul de Chagny. There was no other desire in his presence, than to please him, to sing for him. The world above was inconsequential, its customs and laws, its people. . .

The dreamworld was Erik's domain, and I had been foolish to ever believe that I would be whole, that I would ever prosper in the reality above, once I had tasted of it.

I glanced at the clock on the mantle. Once again, I had wasted too much time recalling the memories of the past, when I should have been preparing for the evening ahead. I must dress quickly and leave. No time to hesitate, only to say a prayer or two for the success of the evening.

My gowns were still wrinkled from my departure. I would have to wear, perhaps not my finest dress, but that which was the least mussed. The blue silk would be sufficient, as it was demure and elegant, with long graceful sleeves that would shield me from the biting chill outside. The color complimented my eyes, I had been told on more than one occasion, and I wished to appear pleasing, even lovely to my strange friend.

Observing myself in the vanity mirror, I wondered if my face, once so young and devoid of worry, had taken on the nuances of age, of a haunted soul. As I pinned my hair, I was relieved not to find those tell-tale marks of distress and sadness. But, I had not Erik's keen eye. He would, no doubt, find me changed, for the better or worse, I was unsure. Our last meeting had been so hasty and frenzied, that I strongly believed he had not properly examined me. That sounds crude. I was not an experiment on the table of a mad scientist. Erik's every sense was so finely-tuned that he could not help but see in me every detail, every small shift of movement, or even a slight alteration in the way I chose to wear my hair.

I rose from my dressing table, buttoned my cloak about my neck, and without a falter, I walked out the door. It was time to meet my future, for I had called upon it to arrive.

I arrived a few minutes early. Determined, I'd traveled very quickly to our meeting place, propelled by my anxious nerves and a strange welling of desire that was not altogether unfamiliar to me. I collapsed against the gate itself in an effort to catch my breath and gather my wits about me as best I could before Erik arrived. I knew he would come in a matter of moments, as he was frighteningly punctual. Of course, he could already be waiting for me, sheltered in the shadows, observing. I would not doubt the possibility.

I had only to take a few shallow breaths before I caught a glimpse of a cloaked figure moving soundlessly towards me. Not a single crisp footfall rang hollow on the banquette, still he walked ever nearer, the fabric of his cloak rustling in the chill breeze, creating of him a startling and seductive silhouette. I drew in more air and stood rigidly straight. I must appear confident before him, no shy ingenue returning to her mentor. Instead, a fully grown woman come into her own.

"Madame," and suddenly, he was close enough so that he might whisper at my ear. "I did not doubt that I would see you this evening." And, the Opera Ghost extended to me his gloved hand.

I had already resolved that I would not hesitate in my actions towards Erik, from the smallest gesture of taking the hand offered me, or anything that was to come. Indeed, I grasped his fingers with a resoluteness that made him to look at me with amusement, and almost, dare I say, surprise?

"Monsieur, I will admit that I was glad to receive your invitation. Though, it is not my custom to meet with a gentleman on a deserted street at midnight."

He chuckled lightly, "Chris-Madame, if I recall, it was once something of a habit of yours."

"Touche'" I looked at him as we made our way down the familiar path, studied him with the intensity he had so often invoked when observing my own features.

Was there something different in his appearance? The mask was still there, of course, a ghost light of white leather, fitted to his face as closely as melted steel in a blacksmith's mold. He still moved in that inhumanely graceful way, both menacing and beautiful.

"No, I have not changed," he snapped at me, and gave my arm a slight jerk. "I regretfully must say I have not grown handsome, but then again, I am no uglier than last time we met. Thus, it would be prudent, madame, if you would stop staring."

"My apologies," I added through clenched teeth.

But, something was different. His eyes, once so cold, so deeply penetrating and unnerving, held an indescribable softness. No other human being would have noticed this alteration, save myself, but those golden eyes had lost their severity. A remainder of that kiss, a handful of years past, lay sheltered in that gaze.

It gave me hope. He could not possibly be so hardened against me as he appeared. Otherwise, what would he have to gain by inviting me once more to his home?

"You will find, my dear, that my home is much restored since receiving its last uninvited guests. . .but I no longer reside in the home you know."

"Then, why here?"

He scoffed at me, turning deftly on his heel- we were at the shore of the lake. "I thought to give our reunion an operatic touch. You always had a taste for the dramatic," Erik stepped into the gondola and beckoned me forward, "Shall we, Madame?"

"Yes," I answered, alarmed at how easily I was reclaiming my former role, my past life.


End file.
